Photo by RADskillZ Photography 2013

I am shrinking and I don’t know what to do. The malaise is strong and I fear I won’t ever get back up. Moments pass and I feel stuck in the mud of forever. It’s moments like these that I know I’m unimportant. Lowly. Covered in dirt without the excitement of being dirty. Destined for a lonely and meaningless death.

It’s hard for me to write these minutes, hours, days. Catatonic I lie on my bed “working”… steadily adding to the number of rejections I can get in an hour of saying hello to profiles of people who say they want, when what they truly mean is fantasy poster types I cannot play. Mostly incompatible with androgyny. I can’t throw on fem fantasy robes as easily these days. Suspending disbelief from straight cis ignorance is getting impossible with my handful of charming whiskers… I’m no longer passing.

How do I roll from my pillow into the heartbeat of a club? These limbs are heavy. It seems Universes away to try and grasp the vibrancy of my true dreams, but my visions are beautiful and they cost money. All I want is to be fed clean fruits from the Earth, enough individuals trickling through my parlor to live well, enough left to give back to my communities without struggle, and to do the work I know so well — releasing clients from their private Hells. I just want the opportunity to work and please.

And yes, I want pleasure too. To bask in the difference I make, know the world’s a safer and more beautiful place because of ethics I teach, an alchemy which we, in an hour or two, create. I want to see through their eyes after catharsis. My touch. This space. My rooms of calm and holding dreams most never dare to share, are wanting.

I do not expect a certain outcome, wading into these waters of wonder, but I bring a few post-it-notes as guide:

• No marking
• Humiliation please
• Sensory deprivation and the patterns of twitching on this body
• Broad smile on a blindfolded face, teeth bared
• Excitement visible yet vulnerable
• My fingers feel out each point for pleasure-ridden pain

Cat and mouse, I could bat at you, claws out, all day.

The moments I’m most grateful for have been marked with a head between my cloth covered thighs. “Deep breath in,” I guide, “Exhale. Now repeat”. Heady still, one remembers that scent and texts me about it half a week later.

Another one deeply lets go inside his heart as I cradle him, lips on my nipple, knowing their way to comfort. I collect his legs with my free arm, pulling his body closer and he is so small, so much smaller than me for a minute. Deep primal archetypes are we.

This one radiates Love — actual “in love” chemicals charge the air thick between us — as I push each needle in. His joy is a sensation I feel. His energy matches mine, and we build a solid castle of exchange. Love for love. Medical grade.

But no release today.

No release today.

No release today… no release.

Unlocking the intelligence of hearts and hands comes after Ego slips away… We are children in here, these bodies made of dissolving expectation and mounting tension. There is nothing more in this safe room than play.

So no release today.

No release today… no release.

Climax. Happens beyond the border of our yeses and nos. It is not a steep incline, jagged mountain cliffs drawn on a statistical chart. Climax is stiff in the center and warm soft air all around. The pressure is different. It is coursing, full of the living, there are countless entities pressing in, eternal knowings and also nothing. Endless stars in the sky. We are made of this moment, and to this Universe we give back a measure of pleasure with holy gratitude.

So tonight we climax. But no release.

It’s not my job to be your perfect half, whittled from ancient stories like a fitted lock and key, but to be your cat.

Calming you. Chasing away the bugs and other rats. Batting at you with lowly hiss, hunting, and sharp claws. Kneading you, warming you, guiding you to content within the meter of my purr. We wrestle and cuddle and ride the waves of tension ’till it’s time to ebb completely now. Our time is up.

Art saves me from depression… so do my loving, needy rats.

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This writing takes time, research, and consideration. It is my art. Thank you.